


The Wedding of the Crocodle and the Raven

by AgeOfAlejandro



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Politics, Revisionist History, Sex Slavery, Slavery, Terrorism, Torture, Triggers, Violence, mentions of genocide - Freeform, non graphic non con, nonrequited incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgeOfAlejandro/pseuds/AgeOfAlejandro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost everyone had a few close allies because they were necessary to survive, but not many had someone like Bones. He was more than an ally.</p><p>He was Hephaestion to Jim's Alexander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Iowa

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Hyde the Body and Honeyycomb!  
> Each main chapter will be separated by an interlude of sorts - mirrorized folk tales, excerpts from books on academic subjects (history, theology), literature, etc. Bones’ entry scene’s dialogue pulled from the script and modified a bit. This is a bit different than what I’ve written in this fandom before, too, since there’s multiple threads attached to multiple characters.  
> ALSO, thanks go to antesqueluz , who is super and helped me with a bit of medical stuff. :3

Leonard McCoy was sometimes considered Jim's weakness – hurting him was a good way to provoke Jim, for example; everyone knew they were a couple and most were baffled by it. The doctor was irritable, made his hatred of social events known, and wore his heart on his sleeve, and the captain was such a polar opposite it was a wonder they could exist on the same ship, much less share a bed.

It further puzzled most people that McCoy was treated as well as he was. Most captains' lovers were degraded and seen as weak (though anyone who knew a Captain's Woman knew the latter was usually false; it took steel to survive a captain's bed). But McCoy had complete autonomy and was treated with the utmost respect – through both his own demonstrations of why this should be so if an officer wanted to survive very long and his connection to the captain.

Jim himself failed to see why anyone thought he would take someone into his life as he had Bones, who was not his equal; and Bones was definitely that. Jim valued his ability to get into the heads of others no matter how convoluted (Jim was willing to admit it when Bones was better at something than he was), good at seeding intrigue and distrust when he bent his mind to it, he could take care of himself, and he was the finest physician in the Empire. Even better, he was absolutely loyal to Jim (and Jim to him) and could be trusted to back him to the hilt. Almost everyone had a few close allies because they were necessary to survive, but not many had someone like Bones. He was more than an ally.

He was Hephaestion to Jim's Alexander.

__________________________________________

  
 _New Rome Times  
8 January, 2233_

 _ISS_ _Kelvin_ destroyed

By Louis Archambeau

 _The_ ISS Kelvin _was destroyed near the Klingon border by a freak space storm. Due to the valor of Captain Robert Robau and Lieutenant Commander George Kirk, who sacrificed themselves to save their crew, casualties were kept at a minimum, numbering only in the dozens. Commander Kirk ordered the evacuation of the remaining 743 crewmen, including his wife, who was in labor at the time._

 _Captain Robau left a widow and two teenage children. Commander Kirk left a widow and two young sons. Both will receive posthumous honors for their courage._

 _For the Emperor's reaction, see page 2A_

__________________________________________________________________________________

  
 _15 September, 2239: Riverside, Iowa_

"The secret, Jimmy, is not letting anyone else know what you're feeling," Tiberius said, looking at his youngest grandson with assessing eyes.

Twelve year old Sam watched him solemnly as his grandfather adjust his cards, bored and idly drawing in the water rings on the old wood table. Sam had already mastered the art of hiding the truth as well as someone of his age could, but had been bribed into helping his little brother learn today. Jim shifted around in his seat with nervous energy and fiddled with the fan of his cards, large blue eyes on his grandfather.

Tiberius reached out and placed a firm hand on the child's shoulder. "Stay still, boy. Otherwise people are gonna figure you've either got a damn good hand or bad one." He paused when the child stilled and added, "What other people think has its place, but let's worry about teaching you how to deceive other people after you've learned to hide the truth first."

Jim nodded. "Okay, Gramps," he said and sat entirely too still for someone who was manic ball of energy at what seemed like all times.

"You gotta look natural, Jimmy," Tiberius said, attempting to keep his growing impatience out of his voice. "Otherwise they'll know something's up." The boy was a grand total of six years old and didn't know any better, and impatience would only make it harder for Jimmy. He'd have to learn to work with that kind of pressure eventually, but this lesson was too important to start with a foundation infected with anxiety.

Jim looked at his grandfather, intently studying the way he sat, and then turned to Sam, who looked back with a raised eyebrow. He shifted his gaze back to Tiberius with a considering look on his face and then relaxed to the what was close to his normal state of being when he wasn't focusing on anything in particular. "Like this?" he asked, slouching in his chair with his elbows on the table.

"Better, yes," Tiberius agreed. "Now, let's play. And no card counting, boys," he admonished. "We'll combine that with hiding later."

__________________________________________________________________________________

  
 _10 July, 2243_

Jim found Sam on the roof above the garage late that afternoon, nursing a developing black eye and a bottle of beer. It smelled like rain as Jim climbed out the window and thunder rolled under bruised and angry clouds. Jim didn't say anything as he settled down next to Sam. He didn't need to. It wasn't like he hadn't tasted the boiling wrath and resentment that was Frank Scanlon; Sam got most of it, but there was always some left over for Jim if he happened to be around.

Sam glanced over his shoulder at his little brother and sighed, shaking his head. "He'll take it out of your hide if he catches you up here."

"I know." Jim nodded, arranging and rearranging himself until he decided tailor style was best, slouching forward to rest his weight on his elbows.

"Grampa’s not around anymore to protect you."

Jim propped his cheek up on an upturned palm."Or you," he replied, a little defensively, as he looked over at Sam.

"I'm old enough to look after myself," Sam said, leaning back on one arm, the other resting on his upraised knee. His beer hung idly in his hand, the thickening breeze rocking it in his fingertips.

Jim didn't really think so. Sixteen was practically grown up, but Frank was older still and still a hell of a lot meaner than Sam (the black eye was proof enough of that). But he chose not to remind his brother. Instead, he shrugged. "Didn't want to be in the house with him by myself."

Sam laughed and there was an emotion Jim didn't quite have a name for in his voice. "Because I'm excellent protection."

"Doesn't have anything to do with that," Jim replied. When Sam shot him a skeptical look, he sighed. "Shut up. I'm ten. Frank's four times my age and easily three times my size. I'm allowed to want to be near my brother when that man's here for once and not on a binge."

Sam huffed. "Maybe we'll get lucky and Frank won't come back next time."

"Or maybe someone'll slip some drain cleaner in his drink." Jim grinned, turning around to face his brother and crossing his legs again.

"I think he might notice that," Sam replied with a chuckle.

"A little obvious, yeah," Jim agreed.

Sam looked a little pensive. "But not a bad general idea," he said, pursing his lips in thought.

Jim arched an eyebrow, waiting for him to go on. He didn't though, and silence descended, broken only by thunder and thick, wet gusts rattling the shutters.

Eventually, Jim stood and shook Sam's shoulder gently. "We should go in, unless you wanna be cooked by lightening or rained on," he said.

"Right," Sam agreed and hauled himself upright. He still looked thoughtful as he shuffled Jim through the window. "Let's talk tomorrow morning," he added, eyes sharp. "I think you're on to something."

Jim tilted his head at his brother, scrutinizing him, and nodded. "All right."

  
The next morning, Jim drifted awake to the intermittent pitter-patter of the end of a storm. The sun shone weakly though the raggedy edge of the thunder clouds as they moved on, and the breeze that flowed into Jim's room through his cracked window tasted clean and faintly metallic. Jim rolled out of bed and into semi-clean clothing, shoving his feet into battered, unlaced sneakers before opening his door. He was on the ground floor, a fact for which he was grateful. It meant he didn't have to worry about climbing down the stairs, which, he was sure, were the creakiest stairs on Terra. You could never tell if Frank was home or not, or if he was, what condition he was in at the time. He was also a distressingly light sleeper unless he had passed out after drinking too much.

Jim crept toward the kitchen and sighed softly when he smelled the sting of alcohol in the room, noting the window-rattling snores coming from the living room. Sam was already up, sipping orange juice and watching him as he shuffled in. Jim took a moment to survey the mess Frank had made of the (previously spotless) kitchen. Large splashes of alcohol besmirched the counter top, at least two glasses were shattered on the floor, and there was blood smeared all over and around the sink.

"That his, you reckon?" Jim whispered, gesturing at the blood and picking his way around the glass. He winced when a shard crunched under his shoe and Frank's snores hitched. Jim held his breath until the snoring evened out again, sighing with relief and catching Sam's eye as they both relaxed.

Sam grimaced. "I hope so, instead of another...thing like I found in the oven last time."

Jim felt faintly ill as he reached the cleanest part of the counter, where Sam (or possibly Frank; Frank liked his screwdrivers) had left out the juice. He deftly plucked a glass from the cabinet and carefully poured himself a cup. "We still gonna talk?" Jim asked after a big swallow of oj, trying not to think of dried hides and hair and black gobbets of old gore.

"Mhm," Sam nodded. "Should probably clean up first so he doesn't come looking for us. I'll take care of the glass if you hit the counters."

Jim nodded. "Done."

After he and Sam had tidied as quietly as they could (only garnering one more snore-hitch), they slipped back into Jim's room to crawl out the window. As soon as Jim hit the gravel under the sill, Sam was off, striding off through the wet grass toward the barn. Jim, though fairly tall for a ten year old, was still considerably shorter than his sixteen year old brother and had to almost jog to keep up.

"Wait up!" he groused, trailing after Sam.

Sam spared him a glance over his shoulder and slowed, allowing Jim to catch up as they approached the barn. It was the largest structure on the property, a looming old thing with faded-blood paint and a sprawl of rusting vehicles around and inside it. It was where their ancestors had kept farming equipment and was now where Frank kept his beloved Corvette. The sun slatted across the inside through the ancient walls, lighting up the drifting dust motes and making the barn seem hugely cavernous.

"So I was thinking, Jim, that we could use the car,” Sam said, leaning against it and crossing his arms.

"To what? Deal with Frank?" Jim asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow and peering at his brother in the early morning light.

"Mhm," Sam replied. "Two words," he said and held up the appropriate number of fingers, "brake lines."

Comprehension dawned. "Ooh," Jim said, a smirk crawling across his mouth, "I see." Frank had no idea what to do with a car if it required him to do more than fill the tires or check the oil. As with nearly every skill they possessed, Sam and Jim had been careful not to let him know that, between the two of them, they were probably capable of building a car, lest he turn them into his personal mechanics. "We'll have to do it slowly, over time."

"I know," Sam agreed with a nod. "I think, that if we've survived – what is it now? seven years? – with him, that we can take a couple more months."

Jim gave him a considering look and then wiggled under the car to get a look at the brake lines. Frank drove the car all year 'round, and squinting at the lines in the dim light, Jim supposed the salt the county dumped on the roads in winter was starting to wear on the lines. He ran a thumb gently along the one above him and concluded that, from the looks of it, if nothing else all they'd have to do was wait a few more years and the lines would probably give out on him.

Sam got down on his knees to peer at his brother. "How are they looking?"

"Crappy," Jim replied, worming his way up to the front of the car to check the lines there. He twisted his lips in thought and tilted his head over to look at Sam. "If we can engineer a way to get him under here, we can get him to push things along himself." Brake lines were touchy things and even moving them wrong could cause problems.

Sam stared at him for a moment. "No," he said, "I don't think so. We'd probably have to remove the rot, which would be pretty suspicious looking later, and there's too great a chance he'd see it and decide to have the lines replaced."

Jim wriggled until he was halfway out from under the car and laced his fingers over his belly. "Well, whatever we do, we're gonna have to do it to the back wheels."

"Right," Sam agreed, leaning against the car again and looking down at Jim. "We need to get something stuck up there or make it look like he got something stuck in there, and that's why the brakes failed."

"And it's gonna have to be a total brake failure." Jim stared up at the ceiling, twiddling his thumbs idly. "I'll get back to you," he said, climbing to his feet and dusting himself off.

"Sure," Sam said with a smirk. He reached out and scrubbed Jim's head. "Let me know what your devious little mind comes up with."

" _Not the hair_ ," Jim squawked indignantly. "And may I remind you whose idea it was that got rid of Frank's dogs?" he asked, flattening his hair again.

"Yours," Sam admitted with a grin. "But I made improvements on it."

"Uh huh," Jim replied skeptically. "Those 'improvements' of yours almost got us caught."

Sam rolled his eyes theatrically. "Whatever. We succeeded anyway."

"Because my idea worked," Jim pointed out again. "Anyway, yeah, I'll let you know what I come up with," he said, vainly trying to reach high enough up his back to dust off the hard-to-reach part his shirt.

"C'mere," Sam said and brushed off the dust and dirt when Jim obediently shuffled close. "Now shoo," he said, giving his brother a push on the back. "Go do whatever it is you do when you're not bothering me."

"Thanks," Jim replied dryly. "You just want some quality time with Miss Flavor of the Week."

"Yep," Sam agreed, pushing off the car. "Aurelan is hot to trot," he said with a grin.

"Yuck," Jim said, making a face.

"Aah, wait until you hit the wonders of puberty," Sam answered, sticking his head out the barn door to check it was clear.

"You mean the zits and the weird voice change and the angst? Those are supposed to be wonderful?"

"I do _not_ angst," Sam said peevishly, deciding the coast was clear and walking out the barn, Jim at his heels.

"Do too," Jim replied, slinking off toward the treeline. "Try not to make me an uncle."

" _Please_. Give me some credit," said Sam. "Although, in all honesty, any kid I had with Aurelan would be a damned awesome one," he added contemplatively.

"Are those wedding bells I hear?" Jim asked with a grin, dodging a swipe from his brother.

"No." Sam rolled his eyes and turned to depart. "Try not to push anyone into the river again."

"That was an accident!” Jim said.

"We both know that’s a lie," Sam called over his shoulder, making for the road.

Jim grinned at Sam's back and headed for the river. It really had been an accident, but Jim saw no reason to try to persuade his brother otherwise again. It didn't ultimately matter. He and Jack may have been on the outs at the time, but he liked Jack a lot and his friend hadn't died or anything. It had actually mended their friendship and Jack had come up laughing.

Sauntering through the small stand of trees at the edge of the Kirk property and the fields that came after it, Jim wondered how exactly to fuck up the Corvette. He discarded idea after idea as too obvious or too likely to get either of them beaten, before hitting on the perfect solution as the slipped and slid down the banks of the English river. He grinned to himself and tucked the idea away as Jack and their friends hailed him.

  
 _Riverside Tribune  
12 December, 2243_

Six Die in Eight Car Pileup

by Charles Madison

 _Yesterday, the vehicle of Frank Scanlon (41) careened out of control through the intersection of Cedar and Riverside... The cause of Scanlon's loss of control is as of yet unknown, but is under investigation._


	2. Androcles and the Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, a slave named Androcles escaped his master and fled into the forest, running until he could run no more.

Once upon a time, a slave named Androcles escaped his master and fled into the forest, running until he could run no more. He found a cave and sought to take refuge there, lying down near the mouth to sleep. But before long, he was woken by little panting sounds from further back in the cave.

Androcles thought to himself, "Perhaps it is a wounded deer which I may eat for my supper." And so he searched for the source of the sounds, finding a large, but skinny lion curled up deep inside the cave. Androcles was frightened and turned to run away, but stopped when the lion cried out to him:

"Man! Man! I am hurt! There is a thorn in my paw! Would you pull it out for me?"

Androcles turned around at that and approached the great beast, seeing him with his paw outstretched where indeed there was a large and wicked looking thorn embedded in his skin. Androcles took pity on the lion and removed it, binding the cat's wound as best he could.

The lion pushed his face against Androcles's hands. "Thank you, man! Your kindness will not be forgotten!"

 

Eventually, Androcles began to miss the company of his fellow man and returned, only to be chained up and taken back to his master. His master decided to make an example of him and sentenced him to be thrown to the lions at the next public amphitheater event.

The day came and Androcles was sent to the arena, where fasting lions awaited him. An especially large one charged to the forefront of the approaching lions and Androcles recognized it as the one he had helped in the cave.

"Do not eat me, Lion! I pulled the thorn from your paw and healed you!" he cried.

"You are going to die either way, Man," the lion replied. "Who better to eat you than I?" With that, he killed Androcles and ate him all up.


	3. Summer 2255

_Riverside, Iowa, Summer 2255_  
  
A piercing whistle broke up the fight and Jim gritted his teeth as the meat head, whom he had called Cupcake, backed off. He ignored the loose eye tooth and carefully sucked the blood in his mouth up for convenient swallowing, gingerly sitting up as Cupcake jumped into line, along with his three cronies and a number of their cadet red 'Fleeted companions as the whistler approached them. He was an older man, handsome with still-dark hair that was greying at the temples, and dressed in the blacks of a Starfleet instructor.  
  
He moved right past the assembled cadets to circle Jim, who was still sitting on the table. "Why, I believe we have George Kirk's boy here!" The man leaned down and examined his face, a smirk plastered on his own. "Just who I was hoping to see."  
  
Jim was no longer in the mood for a fight and, at this point, really just wanted to go find a dermal generator and find someone to fix his Godsdamned tooth. He didn't see a point to lying, either, though. George Kirk was fairly well known, even twenty-plus years later, and Jim's resemblance to him was obvious."Oh?" he asked coolly, wariness flaring.  
  
The man didn't answer and circled Jim again instead. "What exactly are you doing with your life, James Kirk? Because if this is it, and I hear it is, that's pretty damn pathetic."  
  
"What I do or do not do with my life is no concern of yours," Jim replied, hopping off the table to leave and wondering what the hell the man was seeking him out for. He was stopped by a hand on his chest and the man tried to force him back onto the table. The whistler chuckled when he felt the slender point of Jim's blade against his ribs, pushing just hard enough to make himself clear.  
  
"Ballsy," he murmured, stepping away but blocking Jim's path. "Just like your father. Starfleet needs men like you, men who have guts and leap before they look. We've lost that, I think." The man studied Jim, hawkish eyes intent on his and he closed into Jim's personal space again, ignoring the return of the blade against his ribs as he boxed Jim in against the table. "You could make something of yourself, forge your own name. You could do more than your father," he said, leaning in despite the increasingly dangerous pressure of the knife.  
  
He stepped away, cocking a mocking, challenging eyebrow at Jim and added, "Or, you could drink yourself to death and die as a pathetic waste, face down in the gutter somewhere, unmourned and unremembered." He gave Jim one last look and said, "Your choice. Join Starfleet and be someone, or don't and die a nobody under the shadow of a brave man. Shuttle leaves tomorrow morning from the shipyard at oh-eight-hundred sharp. Be there and I'll get you in."  
  
Jim watched him walk away, the cadets falling in line behind him as he left the bar. The other patrons in the bar stared at Jim and he glared at them before slouching out of the room and heading for his bike.  
  
________________________________________

______________________________________________________

The next morning found him in front of the shipyard and as he stopped before the gate, he gave himself one last chance to back out, staring up at the pearly hull of the heavy cruiser currently occupying the shipyard's attentions. The elegant lines of the ship called to him, which he had been persistently ignoring since the day the girl's skeleton had taken shape and risen above the yard itself, and he decided that someday she would be his.

And the only way to get her was to join Starfleet.

 

Throwing the key to his bike at Bernie, an old school friend, he shouted, "Keep her!" and boarded the shuttle. Cupcake glared at him and the hot girl – Uhura, he believed she was called – gave him a contemptuous look as he strolled through the door. He'd get her first name yet.

A voice, the whistler from the night before, called Jim. "I see you've decided to join us," he said, with an amused smirk.

"Yeah," Jim said, aware he was going to have to pay the piper. "Yeah, I have."

"Ready for the hardest four years of your life?" The grin was toothy and not at all comforting; the man looked like he had won a prize.

"Four?" Jim asked, wanting to keep him from assuming he owned Jim Kirk. "Fuck that. I'll do it in three."

The man laughed openly, loudly, and honestly. "You don't do things by half measures, do you?"

"Nope," Jim said with a smirk of his own and nodded when the man waved him off. He found an open seat and dropped into it, fastening his harness and lounging idly, nonchalantly examining his soon-to-be classmates. He kept his expression unconcerned and his posture open and easy, loudly saying, I am not worried about a single one of you fuckers without words. He might be indebted to the whistler, but there was no damn way he was going to allow his classmates to think he was an easy target because of it.

Cupcake seemed to be the smartest of his crew. If he was going to be a cadet, he had to be a genius, but it was possible to be an educated fool – the 'Fleet needed cannon fodder, after all. Uhura had her own little clique, with whom she was chatting animatedly and she seemed to be the alpha, too, although her group seemed to be considerably more intelligent than Cupcake's friends. There were others in the shuttle as well, who he studied with veiled interest, before turning his attentions to the craft itself.

There was a ruckus and a petite shuttle attendant appeared, dragging a man who was considerably larger than she was and looked like the tail end of a week-long bender.

"I don't need a doctor! Dammit, I am a doctor! I suffer from aviophobia. It means fear of dying in something that flies!" he squawked at her.

"How unfortunate," she said curtly, disinterested in his distress. "Sit." The attendant physically forced him into the empty seat next to Jim. _"Stay."_

The doctor gritted his teeth and looked both furious and like he was going to be violently ill. He turned to Jim, who was now anticipating a miserable flight, and said, "I might throw up on you."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "I think these things're pretty safe – "

The doctor turned to look at him, wild-eyed and angry. "Don't pander to me, kid! One tiny crack in the hull and our blood boils in thirteen seconds – solar flare might crop up, cook us in our seats. And wait'll you're sitting pretty with a case of Andorian shingles, see if you're still so relaxed when your eyeballs are bleeding! Space is disease and danger, wrapped in darkness and silence,” the man almost hissed.

"I hate to break it to you, but Starfleet operates in space," Jim replied, unable to resist smirking when the shuttle jumped and jerked and the doctor clutched at his harness like a life line. "You should probably stay out of Starfleet if you can't deal with it."

"Yeah, well my ex-wife took the whole damn planet in the divorce. I got nothing left but my bones and no where to go but up. McCoy," he said after a pause, introducing himself, "Leonard McCoy."

Jim shook the outstretched hand. "Jim Kirk," he said. "That attendant, huh?"

McCoy nearly growled and Jim laughed.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

It turned out that Jim and McCoy were to be roommates, despite the difference in tracks – McCoy was medical and Jim, command. Jim supposed it was because they were the last to enlist and therefore got put into a conveniently empty room together, at least for now. He found himself not minding. Not only did it mean he wasn't rooming with an eighteen year old he would probably kill within the first month, but they had talked. It had been non-revealing smalltalk, but it had done the trick of keeping the contents of McCoy's stomach where they belonged and Jim found himself liking the gruff man; he was refreshingly natural, something Jim rarely saw in anyone over the age of eight or so.

It also meant he wasn't sure if McCoy would survive the Academy, but he planned to make the most of McCoy's company while he had it.  
McCoy dropped his jacket on the bed against the wall, which he was apparently claiming for himself, and gave Jim a beady-eyed look. "Don't bring anyone here without giving me a heads up, don't steal my booze, and pick up after yourself."

"Understood," Jim agreed. Easiest roommate rules he'd ever lived with, certainly. "If I have a hangover, no unnecessary noise."

McCoy raised an eyebrow. "Have those a lot?"

Jim shrugged. "I'll return the favor." He grinned. "I think, actually, you might need that."

"Why?" McCoy asked warily.

"Because we're going drinking," Jim replied, striding across the room.

"Right now?" McCoy asked skeptically. "We gotta be up at oh-ass-hundred to get classes and the rest of that shit settled."

"And? Aren't you used to stupid hospital hours?" Jim gestured at the door as he opened it, raising his eyebrows pointedly when McCoy hadn't moved.

"It's not the same, Kirk" McCoy protested, grudgingly walking through it when Jim's eyebrows did the impossible and rose higher. "Do you even know a good bar here?"

"No," Jim replied. "No time like the present to learn, though. And call me Jim."

 

Sometime later, they found an appropriately dive-y bar, Jim eyed McCoy and made a decision. "Your name? It sucks. 'Leonard' is the name of boring old men from the early twentieth century and you, my man, are in the twenty-third."

McCoy glowered at him from behind the rim of his glass as he took a drink. "I like my name just fine, kid," he said, thunking his glass on the table top.

"Mmm, well, I don't," Jim informed him. "I think I'll call you Bones." He flashed the doctor a grin and settled back into the booth.

"I won't answer to that," McCoy replied. "Call me that all you want, but I respond to my actual fucking name."

"So you say," Jim said. "But I beg to differ. By the end of the week, you'll answer to Bones."

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Kirk's expression when he came into Chris's office was one of mild, unconcerned curiosity. Chris was pleased to note that his new protege was studying the room as he walked the distance from the door to Chris's desk. Kirk's eyes lingered briefly on his slave girl, who was curled up in a ball on the lounge in the corner, and what Chris saw there was neither lust or pity. It was indifference, or a very good imitation of it, despite her alluring figure clad in precious little.

He could work with that, he thought as Kirk turned his full attention to Chris, stopping in front of the desk, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood at ease.

Chris met his eyes and then ignored him for a while, doing paperwork that could actually wait until later. Kirk was likely the sort of man who was used to instant, immediate attention from everyone in the room and he needed to be broken of that. There would be times when being willing to wait would serve him better than demanding someone's attention. Eventually, Chris looked up and gestured at a chair with his stylus. He chucked it on his desk as Kirk settled himself into the cushy leather seat and Chris leaned back to study the man's reaction to being ignored.

He didn't look even remotely miffed, which Chris found a bit surprising – the Kirk from the bar didn't seem like one who would tolerate such treatment. Instead, he regarded Chris with an easy, steady gaze, and then arched an eyebrow very slightly when Chris continued to study him in silence.

Kicking his feet up on his desk, Chris laced his fingers together over his belly and asked, "Command, James?" He had considered forcing him into that track anyway, but decided he might be better served in letting Kirk choose for himself. It didn't hurt that he suspected that that was what he would select anyway.

"Yes, sir," Kirk replied easily.

Chris waited a moment longer and supposed someone else had already taught him how to keep his mouth shut. Or perhaps he was oblivious. "I'm surprised," Chris lied. "With your tendency to brawl, I might have guessed security."

Kirk chuckled. "An occasional hobby, sir."

"But command is what you want?" Chris prodded.

"Correct," Kirk agreed, natural and calm despite Chris's continued scrutiny.

"They don't hand out command assignments to selective mutes, you know," Chris said evenly, hiding his growing annoyance.

Kirk's expression changed just enough to tell Chris he knew what was going on. "Yes, sir," he replied, a pause exaggerating his words' perfunctory nature.

Cheeky, Chris thought. And not oblivious after all. "I called you in to work on that three-year timeline you've decided to curse yourself with," Chris said, pleased despite himself when the semi-non-sequitur nature didn't appear to shake Kirk. He had been so looking forward to teaching the man how to control himself, but alas, it didn't appear that that was necessary. He'd have to watch Kirk for the little things, then. Perhaps he could do some fine tuning. "Here's the list; tell me what you think you can test out of. Remember, you only have three days before classes start, James."

"Yes, sir," Kirk said with a nod, accepting the PADD from Chris's outstretched hand.

There was a few minutes of quiet as Kirk flicked through the list, in which Chris went back and forth between more paperwork and eyeing the man. When the cadet handed back the PADD, he grabbed Kirk's wrist as he retrieved it; he smiled as a tiny glimpse of wariness bloomed behind the other man's eyes. "You should probably get used this, James," Chris said, gesturing at his office idly with the PADD. "You'll spend a lot of time here."

"Oh?" Kirk asked, now the very picture of polite curiosity as Chris released his wrist.

"Oh yes," Chris replied, not fooled by the facade one bit. "I don't know that you'll enjoy it, but you'll be here all the same," he said and stood. "Let me introduce you to Gaila." With Kirk on his heels, he made his way over to the lounge his slave lay upon. "Time to wake up, sweet pea," he said, his voice poisonously sweet as he shook her shoulder roughly. Gaila jerked awake, fear swimming in the drugged confusion behind her eyes and he ran a hand through her curly red hair.

"It's most unusual amongst Orions, this color," Chris said, twinning one long tress around a finger as she froze under his hand. "I thought the slaver had dyed it to increase her value at first, but it's all natural. He said he'd never seen another like Gaila in all his years in the business. I don't know that that's the truth of course, but in any case she's rare. And so pretty," he cooed, running the finger still entwined with her hair down her jaw and pulling her chin up to meet his eyes. "Aren't you, Gaila? Prettiest Orion slave I ever did see." Gaila averted her eyes and he chuckled, releasing her. "Gaila, this is James Kirk. Whenever he comes to the door, let him in unless I've told you otherwise and see to it that he's comfortable."

Gaila nodded, her eyes still downcast. "Yes, sir," she said quietly, her English heavily accented.

“Good girl,” Chris said to her, patting her head like he would a hound. "Now, James," he said as he turned to face the cadet. "There's a price for my help, and I think I'd like to start collecting right now."

Kirk studied him for a moment but didn't move, looking expectantly at Chris instead.

Chris smirked and took him by the elbow, pulling him back toward the desk before bending Kirk over it and shoving his clothing out of the way. He leaned over the cadet's back, pinning him to the desk, and murmured in his ear as he opened a drawer to rummage for lube, "Get used to this, too."

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Later, Leonard would know that this was as close as Jim ever allowed himself to furious storming. He walked, stalked, strode, or sauntered, but never did he storm in all the years Leonard would know him.

Today, his shoulders were stiff as he entered their room, his expression was tight, and he walked like a man hiding pain. He hid it very well, but the doctor in Leonard noticed it anyway from years of seeing people doing the same thing. He contemplated offering his help as Jim went right past him toward the bathroom without a greeting. Leonard retrieved his med kit and settled on the edge of the bed, placing it at his feet, and waited for his roommate.

A cloud of steam heralded Jim's return before long, a towel wrapped around his waist as he crossed the room to his dresser.

"Jim," Leonard called.

He looked over his shoulder. "What?" Jim asked tersely.

Leonard silently offered his assistance, holding out the med kit and watching Jim's face carefully.

"Why should I accept your help?" Jim asked after a moment, his voice a tad cool as he turned around fully, clutching his clothing.

"Because I'm a doctor," Leonard replied, arching an eyebrow and setting the kit on his lap. "You're clearly in pain of some sort and I can help."

Jim studied him and Leonard kept his face open and honest, not hiding his intentions. "All right," he said at length. "Where do you want me?"

Leonard suspected, based on last night, that normally, that would have been an innuendo, but he hadn't made it one. He frowned and said, "Your bed is fine."

Jim dropped his clothes at the foot of the bed and laid down naked, looking expectantly at Leonard.

"What happened?" Leonard asked, moving to sit at Jim's hip. He pulled out the tricorder and hovered over his roommate, asking for permission. Ordinarily, he wouldn't bother, but this wasn't a doctor-patient relationship where he held the power. They were equals and didn't know each other very well.

Jim nodded and by way of explanation, said, "Pike doesn't do things for free.”

Leonard paused in his scanning for a moment. "Ah," was all he said and gently pushed at Jim's belly, indicating that he should roll on his side.

After staring at him for a moment, Jim complied, turning his head to watch as the doctor worked.

Putting down the tricorder on the nightstand that stood between their beds, Leonard sighed. "A tear and a lot of bruising," he said to Jim, who didn't look surprised. "All the way over," he added, refraining from touching Jim this time. Reaching for a generator, he said, "I'm going to fix the tear first and then the bruising."

Jim nodded, resting his head so that he could keep an eye on Leonard. The constant watching was irksome. "You can quit that," Leonard said. "If I were going to hurt you, I would have done it already."

Jim grunted in reply but didn't stop watching Leonard, who rolled his eyes and went to work anyway. He set up the generator and settled back to check the readings again, wondering what else they had to say about the man next to him.

"He kissed me," Jim said eventually, breaking the buzzing silence. "Afterward? Turned me around and _kissed_ me."

Leonard frowned and looked up. "That's...odd," he replied. Kissing was typically reserved for trysts that were, if not affectionate, at least consensual. This wasn't. Jim might not have said no or fought, but he still hadn't had a choice.

Jim didn't reply but his jaw was clenched, and they remained silent until the generator completed its work. "Over," Leonard said to Jim after he had extracted the machine and tidied it up. "Did you want a painkiller? You're all healed up, but there'll be some residual pain."

Shaking his head, Jim rolled over and settle back as Leonard set up the generator again on the worst of his bruising. His hips and abdomen were already a brightly colored mess and the bottom of his ribs and the meat of his shoulders showed signs of abuse as well. Leonard absently ran a thumb along the very outside of a bruise and Jim hissed slightly in pain, seizing his wrist in an almost crushing grip before easing off.

"Sure you don't want something for the pain?" Leonard asked dryly and pulled away when Jim released his arm.

"Very," Jim replied tightly.

When Leonard finished with the generator, he settled back and started to put things away. "Don't overexert yourself for a couple days, if you can manage it," he said, certain Jim was going to ignore him. He seemed like that kind of patient. Leonard contemplated dosing Jim with a mild painkiller despite his protests but was pretty sure he'd be killed in his sleep if he did.

"Thanks, Bones," Jim said, sitting up gingerly and reaching for his clothes. "I owe you one."

"Use my name, dammit,” Leonard replied testily. “And no, you don't," he said as he latched the kit closed.

"Yeah, I do," Jim insisted, pushing on his underwear. "I pay my debts."

"There's no debt here, Jim," Leonard said impatiently. "I offered my help, not a bargain.”

Jim's expression was skeptical and wary. “Didn't your mother tell you the story _Androcles and the Lion?”_

Leonard rolled his eyes. “No, my mother made a point of never telling me classic children's fables. She thought they rotted the mind. Of _course_ she told me that story.”

“How do you know I'm not the lion?” Jim asked, arching an eyebrow. “If you don't demand a debt.”

“I don't.” Leonard got up to put his med kit back where it belonged. “If you're the lion to my Androcles, it wouldn't matter if I demanded one because you'd eat me anyway.” He tilted his head as he settled on his own bed. “Let me make on thing clear to you, Jim. I offer my help to people _as_ help occasionally, but I don't take kindly to people who think they can take advantage of me.”

Jim watched him for a long moment, a politely skeptical look on his face. “All right,” he said eventually and crawled under the blankets.

Leonard restrained a sigh. “You should, ah, report this,” he said, idly drumming his fingers on the blankets beneath him.

Jim paused in his rearrangement of his bedding and looked over at Leonard, a little bit incredulous. “Why would I do that?”

“He...” Leonard started, trying to figure out how to phrase it. 'Rape' was not a word Jim would probably accept, even though that's exactly what it was. “He's not supposed to do this sort of thing,” he said instead. Starfleet did not take kindly to the staff fucking students; the favoritism that resulted frequently produced sub-par officers. This, of course, did not mean that shit like this didn't happen anyway, but Jim could get Pike in serious trouble for it.

“True,” Jim agreed, kicking the blankets down over his feet. “And I hate it and I'm going to kill him someday for it, but I'm going to use it until it ceases to serve me.”

“That’s,” Leonard started and then stopped, wondering how to say it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jim. What about the mean time?”

“What about it?” Jim asked in reply, looking irritated. “I can handle it, Bones. Don’t worry your pretty little head about me.”

Leonard scowled. “Don’t patronize me, asshole. I’m a _doctor_. Worrying about patients is what we do.”

Grunting, Jim rolled over on his side. “Then keep it to yourself.”

With a growl, Leonard scooped up his jacket and a PADD and stalked out the door. What a jackass.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning dawned too early for Jim’s taste, but he dragged himself out of bed anyway. Most of the tests he needed to pass to get the three year plan were tomorrow and while Jim was feeling pretty confident about his ability to pass with flying colors anyway, he thought it might be a good idea to brush up on a few things. Grabbing a light breakfast at the mess, he headed for the library with the intention of spending the day there.

"So," a snide voice called as he left that evening, "what did you have to do for Captain Pike to get in?" Jim recognized the voice - sounded like that asshole, Cupcake, from the fight back in Iowa. "Get on your hands and knees and take it up the ass?"

Jim turned just long enough to give the speaker - indeed, it was Cupcake - a disdainful look. He'd like to finish what they started at the bar, but he couldn't get away with that at this point. He wasn't here exactly by his own doing; Jim had the brains for the 'Fleet, but hadn't applied in anything that resembled a timely fashion and had only gotten in because Pike bent a few rules.

"So?" the man asked again, grinning maliciously. "Bet that hurts."

Rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, Jim sighed. "Really, Cupcake?" he asked, banking on the nickname starting a fight he was pretty sure he could win sober. "Is that the best you can do? Because, Cupcake, I'm pretty sure my prissy grandparents can come up with a better insult than that. And they're like ninety, Cupcake."

"That's not my name," the man hissed, eyes narrowed and closing in on Jim.

Giving him a sharp eyed smile, Jim tilted his head. "Then what is it, Cupcake?"

 

 

Jim did not regret the resulting bruises or busted knuckles at all, rubbing them idly as he sauntered through the dorms to his room. Anything Cupcake said from now on could be attributable to him being a pathetically sore loser and Jim couldn't help but be a little pleased with himself. Ignoring Cupcake would probably be the best idea, at least for now. Perhaps someday he could be won over, but for now, he would be too busy sulking and spitting to be any use.

He flopped down on his bed when he arrived in his room, not even kicking off his boots. He supposed Pike would hear about it and would probably have something to say; Jim was uncertain as to how to respond, if it came up.

He spent some time ruminating on the matter, only to be interrupted when Bones came stomping through the door, grumbling about something, a little too low for him to hear. Bones stopped and stared at Jim.

"What did you do to yourself?" he demanded irritably, clearly cataloging the forming bruises and scrapes.

"Solved a problem I was having," Jim replied airily, tucking an arm behind his head.

"With your fists? You're too damn smart for that, Jim," Bones replied grumpily, dropping his bag on his bed and fishing around next to it for something. "Here," he said, pulling out a tricorder and a dermal regenerator and putting them on the nightstand between their beds. "I bet you're capable of dealing of the basics yourself. Don't fuck with the settings or you can count on me insisting that you go to the clinic from now on." With that, Bones dumped the contents of his bag on his bed, rifling through the mess of PADDs and miscellaneous junk for something.

Jim studied the machines for a long moment before reaching for the tricorder. He still found himself wary a little of Bones. No one offered their help free of cost to anyone they weren't related to by blood, and the Gods knew even that wasn't a guarantee. He and Sam had charged each other for help more than a few times. Jim scanned himself for anything unusual and found nothing unexpected. He traded the tricorder for the generator, setting it to work on his hand and lying back to wonder about Bones some more. He couldn't escape the niggling feeling that he was racking up debts to the man despite the doctor's protestation to the contrary.

"There has to be something I can do to pay for," he said and gestured at the generator, "this."

"There isn't," Bones replied absently, now absorbed in a PADD. "We've talked about this."

"I don't believe you," Jim said, contemplating turning off the generator now and refusing help in the future.

Bones lowered the PADD, looking annoyed. "I have an idea, actually," he said tartly. "You can shut the fuck up about it from now on unless I specifically tell you you owe me. Consider the favor repaid."

Jim paused. "I don't think that counts," he said dryly.

"You demanded that I name a price and that's what I'm asking," Bones countered. "You stopped having a choice when you wanted to to repay me, so shut up." With that, his eyes returned to the PADD and the generator dinged softly, signaling the end of its work.

Jim supposed he had him there, but he didn't like it.


	4. Paths to Empire: 1800-2100 by Fredrick Williams

In early February of 1951, an industrial accident in a Petrograd steel factory killed close to twenty people. Riots across the country lit the already-troubled duchy aflame - the winter that year had been harsh and lasted well into what was normally planting season, and the general nature of the political atmosphere was uneasy, with intense, if quiet, fighting amongst the ranks of the nobility, merchants, and the rising influence of the working class. Riot turned into rebellion in the wake of the accident when Oleksander Lebed lead a group of armed men into the home of Paul Vladimirovich Romanov, Duke of Moscow, and killed him and his family. The mutilated bodies, including those of three young children, were displayed as trophies outside the palace until they were decayed beyond recognition and taken down. What became of the corpses of the Duke and his family is a mystery, though it is likely that they were dumped into the Moskva River.  
  
This could not have come at a worse time. The House of Pynchon was fading, the emperor Marcus I in failing health, and his children too young or too ill themselves to take the throne. Weather was unusually cold, as it was very similar to the Year Without a Summer, with famine and blight sweeping through the Southern Hemisphere. North America was suffering through a violent civil rights movement with intense fighting between the dominant Euro community and the subordinate minority groups, particularly in the former United States’s Southern states. Imperial attention was needed in too many places and the military was stretched thin, quelling uprisings in Africa and the Pacific rim at the same time it was dealing with widespread riots in North America.  
  
Lebed and his cohorts successfully took over the Duma and declared the duchy a free country. Several of the former Baltic and Balkan countries joined them, and it was not long before significant portions of Africa and Asia followed suit, announcing their independence by slaughtering imperial officials wholesale and, in one case, sending body parts of the dead to the Emperor himself.  
  
Chancellor Freida Gurtis took the throne in a coup, and as Empress Augusta II, set about stabilizing the empire, focusing first on the problem of starvation and need in the remaining territory. The next year, areas producing a surplus (France, Spain, the former United States, among a few others) were pushed to produce as much as possible and all food was rationed. The situation was not ideal by far, but it ended the majority of the food riots.  
  
Travel was strictly controlled during this time as well, as much to control the remaining unrest as to prevent the plagues from spreading. The civil rights leaders met directly with the Empress for talks, and she was not entirely unsympathetic to their plight. Between them, they hashed out a solution to the problems minority groups living in the former Unites States faced. The Euro community would not be allowed to lynch the innocent, nor terrorize them for using their talents.  
  


> "It is in the best interests of the Empire for all her people to be content and to discover the furthest reaches of their skills. The prior situation in America has made an important part of the community miserable and oppressed. We find this intolerable and expect all imperial subjects within the bounds of former United States to obey our commands,"
> 
> -Empress Augusta II, September 29, 1954 in Atlanta, Georgia

  
  
As she made the television address informing America of her expectations, the leaders with whom she had worked were shot and buried without ceremony and the Empress openly condoned the crackdown on rioters protesting against the killings in the following days.  
  
From the moment she took the throne, Augusta sabotaged all efforts of the rebelling African and Asian areas to create functional countries, most often through local saboteurs who were willing to act on the behalf of their rightful ruler. Her son, Julius V, would follow in her footsteps until he was ready to reclaim the territories Marcus I had lost.  
  
Augusta died in May of 1998 shortly after taking back Russia and Eastern Europe, and Julius consolidated imperial hold by 2001, hanging Lebed's successor after trying him for treason.  
  
In 2004, Julius was ready to reclaim the rest of the rebelling areas and, acting in co-operation with local groups, succeeded by 2013 in taking back Africa. Most famous of these families were the Uhuras of East Africa, lead by Abasi Uhura. The Emperor rewarded him with the governorship and allowed him and his family to stay in their homeland, rather than being swept off with the rest of the African elite to be deposited in what was formerly Canada.  
  
Returning imperial rule to Asia proved to be much more of an ordeal, particularly in regaining control of the Greater Persian Region, an area historically notoriously difficult for even indigenous rulers to control, in part due to the immensely complex and constantly shifting nature of tribal alliances in the area. Julius solved this by simply emptying the region of people, splitting them up, and putting them in completely foreign lands. The population vacuum he filled by replacing them with a mix of other ethnic groups to prevent any cohesive attempts to interfere with the stability of the region.  
  
By 2023, the Empire was once again whole and turned her attention to the stars.

 


End file.
